Snow-Walker

by Catherine Fisher

  The ravens woke her, croaking in the trees above her, sending down showers of dry powdery snow. She sat up. Brochael and Kari were out at the trees’ edge, talking. She saw Brochael mark something on the ground with a stick. Thorkil lay nearby, still asleep, his fur hood up over his face, one arm thrown out carelessly. She shivered; it was barely light and bitterly cold.

  Brochael turned. “About time. Come and have something to eat.”

  It was the same cooked meat, and some black, hard bread. She chewed it slowly, looking out over the still, white country wrapped in its fogs and mists, the forests marching over slope and hillside like a motionless and silent army. Kari stared out too, as if his eyes feasted on this different place. She caught the same vivid excitement in him as when he had first seen Thorkil and herself; his fingers clenched in their gloves, his eyes paler than ever in the early light. Finally Brochael stirred and flung a handful of rotten cones at Thorkil.

  “Get up, lad. This is no place to sleep late.” He turned to Jessa. “Get your things. Time’s wasting.”

  It took them a while to wake Thorkil; he seemed deep in dreams and hardly knew where he was for a moment or two. Brochael grinned down at him.

  “Perhaps the young lord could get off his bed now? And take his scented bath?”

  Thorkil smiled back, but Jessa thought he was still quiet and tired.

  Once they had begun to walk, none of them spoke very much; it was easier to trudge in silence through the empty land and the wide, bitter sky.

  Suddenly, at about midday, Kari stopped. Then, slowly, he looked back. Jessa looked too.

  Smoke was rising over the skyline far off—a great black column of it, the underside lit with a faint red glow. Silent, the four of them watched it. It could only be Thrasirshall. They’d been quick, Jessa thought, quicker than she’d dreamed. Gudrun must have chosen them well, men who wouldn’t fear the place and its hidden creature—perhaps she’d even told them something of the truth. They’d have searched, then burned, and even now they would be galloping down the fellside. She turned, straight into Brochael.

  His face was grim. “Yes, you’re right. Kari! Come on!”

  He pushed them into the trees and along the hilltop. The snow was thinner here, and in the tangle of undergrowth their tracks would be harder to see. Jessa knew he was worried; he urged them on tirelessly all afternoon. Kari walked swiftly, and she wasn’t tired herself. Oddly enough it was Thorkil who held them back. More than once she had to call the others to wait for him.

  When he caught up, his breath came in gasps and he clutched his side.

  “Can’t we rest?” he said at last.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Brochael snarled. “Are you ill?”

  “I don’t know!” He seemed puzzled, and in pain. “I can’t seem to get my breath … perhaps it’s the cold. Just a few minutes, Brochael.”

  But Brochael shoved him on. “We haven’t got that long. A spear in the back will be a harder pain to put up with.”

  But after a while Thorkil stopped again. He collapsed onto his knees, dragging in air. Jessa crouched beside him.

  “He’s really in trouble. We’ll have to wait.”

  Brochael stormed and cursed. Then he turned and marched off through the trees.

  “Where’s he gone?” Jessa asked.

  “To look back.” Kari kneeled beside her. He took his thin hand from its glove and gripped Thorkil’s shoulder.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  Shuddering, Thorkil looked up. Their eyes met. They were still for a moment, a long silence, and then Thorkil began to breathe easily and freely. At the same time Kari shivered, as if something had chilled him. He put his glove back on and pushed the lank hair from his eyes.

  “What was it?” Jessa said to him.

  “Nothing.” His pale eyes searched through the trees. “Nothing. He’ll be all right.”

  With a floundering of branches Brochael was coming back. “No sign of them yet,” he snapped. “The forest ends ahead, then the land is open moor. We’ll have to cross it before tonight.” He looked at Thorkil. “Can you manage?”

  “Yes.” Jessa helped him up; he straightened slowly. “It’s easier now.... I don’t know what caused it.”

  “Never mind! Just move.”

  They pushed their way out through the trees, the wet, heavy snow sliding from the branches onto their shoulders. Beyond, the land was a dim slope, frozen into stiff hillocks and littered with boulders under the snow. It was treacherous, but they scrambled down. Far overhead the two birds circled; they swooped down, cawing and karking over Kari’s head as he slipped and stumbled at Jessa’s side. Below, Brochael was close to Thorkil, both of them sliding on the loose scree that lay invisible under the snow. Horses would find this hard to manage. That would help surely.

  By the time they had crossed the great moor, the short day was darkening. They were tired; their ankles ached with the bruising of the stones. Before them lay a small lake, frozen white, but at its edge the land made an overhang where rock outcropped. The bitter wind brought tears to their eyes. Jessa’s ears ached and her toes were an agony.

  Brochael pushed his way through the scrub and under the overhang and they followed, squatting in a breathless row against the rock.

  In the shelter and the quiet they coughed and spat and caught breath. Jessa felt Brochael’s warmth at her side. She tugged her boots off and rubbed her wet feet. After a while a faint glow touched her face and fingers.

  “Well,” Brochael said at last. “Here is as good as anywhere.”

  “You mean we’ll stay?” Thorkil said doubtfully.

  “We can’t outrun them. We must hide.” He looked at Kari. “Will the birds warn us?”

  The boy nodded, tugging pine needles from his silvery hair.

  “Then we sleep,” Brochael said. “All of us. While we can.”

  “It’s too cold,” Thorkil objected. “We’ll freeze—or we will later.”

  Brochael gave him an irritated glance. “I don’t think you’ll find that, if you’re as tired as you should be. You were the one who wanted to stop.”

  “Yes.” Thorkil looked uneasy. “Yes, I know.”

  They ate some dried meat from Brochael’s pack, but it was hard to swallow and there was nothing to drink but snow. Then they lay down, huddled together for warmth. Jessa felt Brochael pull his coat around Kari. Then she slept, suddenly and completely.

  When she woke it was still dark, the sky in the east glimmering with wan light. She was unbearably stiff and cold. Carefully she moved away from the others and sat up. Brochael lay on his back against the rocks, one hand on his ax even in sleep. She could just see Kari in the depths of his coat. But Thorkil was gone.

  She scrambled up, easing the pain from her back and arms. Then, quietly, so as not to wake the others, she pushed through the bushes and crouched down.

  The landscape was bleak and silent. Far off some bird was calling, a lonely cry over the miles of tundra. The wind was cold, but she knew it was milder than last night; already the frost on the branches under her fingers was beginning to drip.

  But where was Thorkil? She was worried about him. The pain yesterday, which seemed to fade so quickly—that wasn’t like him.

  She slipped out from the bushes and stood up. Below, over a shallow slope of scree, was the shore of the lake, its black reeds poking up from the frozen lid. Perhaps he was down there.

  She went down, the tiny stones trickling underfoot, and saw at the very edge that the ice was receding, thinning to a frill where bubbles of trapped air slid and wheezed. She crouched down and drank; the water was bitterly cold and stagnant.

  Then a sound froze her. It was the slow clip-clop of hooves. It came from her left, somewhere nearby. As she looked around, she saw him, a horseman coming down the track, an armed man, with ring mail that glittered in the pale light. She kept perfectly still. If she moved now, he would see her.

  The man drew rein. He looked across the dimness o
f the moor, at the flat glimmer of the ice. Where were the rest of them? she wondered. Probably not far.

  His head turned; she held her breath, flattening against the wet stones, but he kept looking beyond her. Then he urged the horse on.

  At the same moment, she saw Thorkil.

  He was crouched behind a rock halfway up the slope. He hadn’t seen her, but he was watching the rider intently, and then he did something that astonished her. He stood up and called!

  The rider’s head turned swiftly; the horse whinnied with fright. As the horseman struggled with it, Jessa leaped to her feet, and Thorkil looked down at her. He stared, as if she was a stranger. At the same time, the horseman dragged the horse’s head to stillness. He looked up, and she saw him stiffen.

  He had seen her!

  Fourteen

  If aware that another is wicked, say so:

  Make no truce or treaty with foes.

  The horseman stared at Jessa. After a moment he urged the horse with his knees, and it picked its way toward her over the stones. The man’s eyes slid from her; he paused as if puzzled, and then came on again.

  “Keep very still,” Kari’s voice said from somewhere behind her. “He can’t see you now, but if you move, it will be more difficult.”

  She waited as the horseman rode nearer. Now she could see his face, the blue snake mark in his skin; he looked wary, almost afraid. His eyes took in the moor and the lake; they moved across her without a flicker. It was uncanny, unbearably tense. She moved her foot; a stone clicked.

  Again the man stopped, his gaze exploring the lakeshore. She was so close she could have reached out and touched the horse. It turned and looked at her, nuzzling at her shoulder.

  Suddenly, as if his nerve had snapped, the rider whirled his mount around and urged it hurriedly back up the track, slithering and scrambling over the loose ground. He rode up to the top of the slope and over it, without looking back. The noise of hooves on stones died away to silence.

  A warm hand gripped her. “It’s all right. He’s gone.”

  Brochael was there, holding his ax, looking at her angrily. “Why did you stand up? If he’d seen any one of us, one shout would have brought them all over here. Are you mad?”

  “I thought he would see Thorkil!”

  “Thorkil was well hidden,” Brochael snorted, watching him come down the slope. “Think next time!”

  Furious, she pulled away from him. She glared at Thorkil angrily. “Why did you stand up?” she snapped.

  He glared back. “I was calling you. I hadn’t seen the rider.”

  “But—”

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “I climbed up there to get a look around. You can see the line of the old road across the hills. It looks as if it heads south.”

  While he and Brochael discussed the route, she turned away, puzzled. She saw Kari watching her. He sat on a rock, with one of the great birds at his feet, the other behind him, picking at something red on the snow. For a moment he looked so like Gudrun that she shivered.

  “How did you do it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” His eyes met hers calmly. “It wasn’t easy—for a moment he saw you. I had to make him believe that he was wrong. That there was nothing there.”

  “Like the door in the hall?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned and looked out at the coming sun lighting the clouds and the white mountains. “Is it the runes, the magic the old woman has? Is that the same?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know any runes. This is in me, I haven’t learned it.” He looked over at the lake. “I’ve never seen so much frozen water like that. It has a strange beauty....”

  “Has it?” Jessa asked. “It tastes foul.”

  They ate some meat and smoked fish and drank the brackish water. Then Brochael outlined his plans.

  “We’ll head directly south, keeping near the line of the road, but staying in the forests as far as possible. We’ll be harder to follow there; we might even risk a fire at night.”

  “What if they have dogs?” Jessa asked.

  “They don’t. We would have seen them by now. It will be rough country, but if we move quickly we could be at Morthrafell in two days, where the river called Skolka cuts through the mountains down to Skolkafjord and the sea.” He glanced at Kari. “We can wait at the hall of the Wulfings, as arranged.”

  “Wait for who?” Thorkil asked.

  Ignoring him, Brochael pulled the pack onto his back and stood up. “Now, take care. They may still be about.”

  It took them all morning to cross the open moor, going cautiously over the boggy, treacherous ground. Finally the land rose a little, and they came into the forest, scattering a herd of elk.

  Here the snow was thin; ice glistened and hung from the dark branches. They moved easily through the scattered trees, and as the sun climbed, it became warmer. A few birds sang, far down in the aisles of the wood.

  Jessa tried to speak to Thorkil but he was never near her. He kept near Kari, always talking and asking questions that Kari rarely answered. But when they stopped to eat at midday, Jessa saw her chance. Pulling Thorkil away, she shoved him hard against a tree trunk.

  “What were you thinking of?” she snapped.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know! You called out!”

  “To you.”

  “But you didn’t see me until after!”

  He looked at her. His eyes were blue and clear; there was a hard look in them that was new. “You’re wrong, Jessa. I called you. Who else would I have called?”

  She was silenced. She wanted to say “the horseman” but it would be wrong; it would be foolish. But that was what was in her mind.

  He pushed past her and went back to the others. She stared after him. It was unthinkable that he should betray them. Why should he? He hated Gudrun.

  All afternoon the forest went on endlessly, full of the piping of invisible birds. They traveled along tracks and winding paths, always keeping the sun on their right as it sank among clouds and vapor. Once Kari cried out; Brochael raced back. “What is it?”

  The boy stood stock-still, his face white. “She spoke to me. She knows where we are. She has a hand on us, gripping us tight.” He looked up at Brochael; Jesssa saw a strange glance pass between them.

  After that they moved more carefully. Twice the ravens karked a warning, and they plunged off the path, hiding in scrub and spiny bushes, but no one passed. Once, far off in the forest, Jessa thought she heard voices and the jingle of harness, but it was so distant she could not be sure.

  At sunset they were still traveling over the high, bare passes of the hills. Jessa was desperately tired; she stumbled and her ears ached with the cold. She longed for shelter and hot food.

  But now Brochael would not stop. He hurried them on over one ridge and another, perilously outlined against the black horizon. They spent part of the night in a cave high up on a cliffside—a chilly crack in the rocks so cold that they had to risk a fire of wet wood. It smoked so much they could hardly breathe. Brochael was anxious, Thorkil silent and morose. Each of them had a weapon to hand except Kari, who slept silently and completely on the hard floor, with the two birds sitting hunched by his side.

  They left the cave long before it was light and climbed up over the highest crags and passes, until at last they stood looking down on a distant green country cracked open by a great fjord of blue water.

  “Skolkafjord,” Brochael said, easing the weight on his back. “We’ve done well.”

  The wind roared in their ears, whipping Jessa’s hair out of her hood. She watched Kari as he stared with delight at the snowless country, at the expanse of water and the distant glimmering sea. Brochael watched him too, grinning, but Thorkil stood slightly apart, looking back.

  Coming down was easier. Soon they came to country Brochael recognized: thin woodlands where the snow was softer, and where small, swift streams bubbled and leaped downhill. By midafternoon they reached
the place he had called the hall of the Wulfings.

  It rose among the trees ahead of them as they came down the valley of a swift stream—a ruin without a roof and with the walls broken and blackened. Charred timbers rose from tangles of briar and bramble, and openings that had once been doors and windows were choked with black, tangled stems. Thorkil touched a window shutter that hung from one hinge; it slithered and fell with a crash that sent echoes through the wood.

  Forcing his way through, Brochael led them in.

  Even now they could see where the great hall had been; the large square hearth in the center was still black with ashes, its stones fire-marked under the pine sapling that grew out of it. Jessa threw down her pack and sat on a stone; from the charred ash she pulled a half-burned wooden spoon, its handle carved with a zigzag line.

  “What happened here?”

  “This was Wulfings’ land,” Brochael said. “The Jarl’s men would have cleared it, and then burned it.”

  With a squawk and a flap a raven landed on the high crumbling wall. Thorkil looked up at it. “Is it safe?”

  Brochael handed out broken bannocks. “Safe as anywhere—it’s probably been long forgotten.” Jessa noticed his glance at Kari; the boy nodded slightly.

  “That witch can probably see us anyway,” he went on cheerfully, stretching out his legs.

  They found a sheltered place under the wall and made it as comfortable as they could, tugging out the brambles and flattening the ground. But there could be no fire until after dark, and even then it might not be wise. Jessa and Kari scrambled down to the stream for water. As he bent over it, she saw him pause, and then squat slowly. He watched the moving water with a strange fixity, always one spot, though Jessa could see nothing but the brown stream over its stones.

  After a moment she asked, “What do you see?”

  Slowly he put his hand out and spread it flat on the surface, letting the icy stream well around his fingers. Then he pulled them out and let them drip. “Nothing.”

  Absently he filled the bowl, and she knew he was going to ask her something. She was right.

  “You met her, didn’t you, in the Jarlshold?”